


Little Do You Know

by irreplaceable_ecstacy



Category: Alice by Heart - Sheik/Sater/Sater & Nelson
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Loss, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Lost Love, Memories, i am so bad at tagging, identity crisis, there's a war going on out there somewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:49:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29655729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irreplaceable_ecstacy/pseuds/irreplaceable_ecstacy
Summary: The Red Cross Nurse. Who was she, really? She had no name, no story and no family. She was not always the villainous character Alice played her out to be but the woman was a mystery. An empty slate to write on and a puppet to master.When she finds a book, a rabbit toy and a few letters, she tumbles down into a hole of her loss, cowering within her own shell of grief. Behind the nurse was a woman in anguish, stripped of her identities long before the war as a wife and mother.
Kudos: 10





	Little Do You Know

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, gang!  
> First off this is my first Alice By Heart fic (woohoo!) and it's probably the longest one-shot i have ever written.  
> I hope you enjoy it. Writing this was a lot of fun because I truly adore the Red Cross Nurse and I just wanted to bring some dimension to her character.  
> I have not proofread it so there might be some mistakes here and there but I will be sure to fix them!  
> That will be all!
> 
> <3 <3

“Alice Spencer! Take a look around! We’re well past make belief! No wonder they are burning books.”

* * *

Balled within her fists were the crumpled pages she had ripped from Alice’s book, a childish fantasy written upon pages worn from age. How old this book was, she could have cared less. None of its history mattered for it was simply going to be fuel for the next fire if it was ever found by the soldiers that marched above. What she knew, however, was that this book was going to bring that child to her demise if she were continuously visit her friend who had been diagnosed with a severe disease, tuberculosis. She did not understand why these children could not listen to simple orders. It was no laborious task to stay away from the sick. Keeping a distance should be a lot easier than gluing one’s self onto another, especially if it meant putting their life at risk. Apparently, Alice Spencer was the epitome of stubbornness and Red Cross prayed to her God above that no one was inspired to do the same.

Night had fallen and she was relieved of her duties to get some rest but with anger fuming at the top of her head, she doubted that she would get a good night’s sleep. Her cheeks were flushed in a red so deep it nearly matched her flaming hair, and her knuckles were white from clutching the pages. Tomorrow would be another day like this. Tend to the patients, check on the children and ensure that they were listening to the adults. She would have to keep her anger in check before she combusted once more for her stacked up anger never ended well. Poor Dr Butridge. With his hearing disability, working about an on-call job was trickier than it seemed and the children were merciless in their jests. Her temper was nowhere near recovering with all that she had seen and if these children needed another yelling, she would not hesitate. It often did the trick anyway.

Bursting into her shared bunker with the other nurses, Red Cross slid into her bed and tossed the book aside on her nightstand. The crinkled pages were then discarded on her blankets; she had no intent to waste precious paper. Sighing, she laid on her back, hands clumsily plucking at the pins in her hair to undo her curls from the intricate and careful bun she had pulled it up into. The tension in her skull vanished and she could finally find the peace to relax. Unfortunately, that was cut short when one of the nurses approached her with an unpleasant look. It was one of the night shift nurses, someone Red Cross never took the initiative to speak too on a leisure basis for she often found herself wanting rest than a conversation. This was not a confrontation she could escape.

“Red Cross, I heard that you yelled at the children… _**again**._”

“They were tampering with patients and they refused to listen. It’s not the first time I’ve yelled at them for the same reason.” An easy excuse.

The other scoffed. “They’re just children. If you keep up with your tactics, they might feel like they’re trapped in a war zone of their own.”

“We are trapped in a war zone, Helen. Open your eyes and look around you. Each and every one of us is suffering in our own war zone, and the children are walking themselves to their graves every time they break the rules,” Red Cross protested plainly.

“But now you’ve become a part of their war zone. You’ve become the enemy, and maybe they’re rebelling out of defense. Or perhaps it’s even an offense to drive you mad.”

“I’m not afraid of a few children”-

“Yet, you raise your voice to be heard.”

“You need to assert your presence and only then will they realize their places.”

An exasperated groan. “You are insufferable!”

The nurse turned on her heel and stormed away where the other nurses followed swiftly, most of them acting as if they had not been listening whilst they were changing into their uniforms. Swinging the door open, they shuffled out in awkward whispers and murmurs but one of them stayed. Her eyes darkened as she gazed at Red Cross’s nonchalance, and she did not allow herself to think twice before blurting out the question that had been plaguing her mind. It stung at the tip of her tongue like venom. The final strike.

“Tell me. Did that ever work with your little girl, hm?”

At that, Red Cross sat up to glare at the nurse. The glowering stare was enough to send her running out of the room. The patter of her scurrying would have made her laugh but then the plague that question had carried infected her and now it infested her mind with its echoes. _Her little girl_. What on earth was she talking about? Her inward cowardice betrayed her composed exterior. Had one remained to watch Red Cross respond to the question, they would have noticed the way her hands trembled as they clawed at the blanket. Her mind remained blank as the question dissolved into nothing. There was nothing to be upset over. Those words carried no meaning at all; it was a very _very_ poor attempt. Or at least it was what she convinced herself.

Shaking her head, she reached out to grab the scraps of paper on her bed and turned to the nightstand beside her bed. She had had enough trouble in one night and it was time to turn in. The drawer underneath creaked as she yanked it open to toss the papers inside but decided against it. She did not wish to have a termite problem. Getting out of bed, she lowered herself on her knees and pulled her trunk from underneath her bed. She had never really touched the bag for there was nothing much she needed from it but she did not know where else to store the book safely. She could not have the other nurses sniffing around her things for it. Frustration crossed her features as she worked her way through the lock, grumbling digits under her breath in recitation and huffing every time the knobs clicked out of place. When the lid popped open, she was met with a startling sight. She had not known what to expect from a suitcase that had not been opened for months. She had been confident there would not be a ghost there to scare the wits out of her but whatever was in there frightened her more.

When the war had begun, Red Cross had hoped that all those pesky blocks they called books had burnt, a selfish wish for her own being but what was even more selfish was the surviving book that sat among her things in her trunk. She examined the book with wide eyes and, with steady hands, picked it up. The layer of dust it was coated was enough to show its neglect. It did not live up to its purpose anymore as a book for it became nothing more than a dust collector sat to rot away in a locked-up trunk with a stuffed rabbit and child’s blanket. The book title read ‘Alice Through the Looking Glass’, the sequel to Alice Spencer’s own book. A manifestation of a thought conjured in Red Cross’s mind: it used to be someone’s favorite. But this was not a favorite of hers. Then whose?

Flipping through the pages, she caught a glimpse of a name on the front page: Rose. Then, a few envelopes slid out onto her lap and they were all addressed to the same name, none of which matched the owner of the book. A majority of the letters were designed the same, all made of the same parchment and inking, except for one. It had been a bright yellow telegram, now discolored to a dull beige. Judging by how neatly these envelopes had been opened with its seal still intact, they obviously belonged to Red Cross. No one else in this bunker favored tidiness like she did. She decided to read some of them and the ones she chose were the telegram dated almost recently and the letter that was dated a few days before it, the final letter that was delivered to her. Now, it was not because the mailing system had crumbled that she did not receive any mail. People were still receiving letters in this slum. It was that Red Cross’s sender had ceased to send her any more. Not that she could recall why.

Bracing herself, she fumbled for her reading glasses, slid them on and began to read the telegram to herself in a low murmur.

‘ _Dear Ms…_

_I regret to inform you that your husband, Mr…, and daughter, …, did not make it through the first air raid. Their bodies were found among the rubble. You may request to be relieved of your duties to see them. An immediate replacement will be sent.’_

The words that would have stabbed her through the heart months ago did not even feel like a pinch presently. They were just alphabets slapped on a piece of paper meant to relay news to someone that was long gone. Reading with her own darkened grey hues, the message came and went with little to inflict. A once sharpened knife now blunt. Tossing the telegram into her bag, she prepared herself for the letter she selected from the array.

‘ _My dear, I hope that you are well._

_I pray that you will return to us soon. The war is stirring and I fear that it may take you and the city with it. **Rose** is waiting for you at home and she’s worried that you might never return. She misses you dearly. I wish I could be there to help you or be with you but there isn’t much we can do about it. Please take care of yourself. I love you.’_

_Yours,_

_…_

Letters written by the hands of one that was so warm, now cold beneath the dirt. The name written upon its address, dead… But the carrier lived on. The names she had been reading appeared to be a foreign word of sorts, unfamiliar to the eyes of the Red Cross. This person, whoever this letter and telegram had been addressed to, died in the war along with its senders. Her heart truly ached no more for them. It seemed wasteful of tears to weep over strangers that she could no longer recognize, even names that did not ring a bell were a misuse of time to dwell on. But why were her cheeks wet with tears? Clear gleaming teardrops trickled down her pale cheeks, dripping onto her lap where it missed the letter by an inch. Then, a few more fell, soaking darkened patches into her skirt. Her features did not scrunch up in sadness to squeeze out her tears nor did her chest seize with the pain of heartbreak or sorrow. They just poured from widened eyes that could not be torn away from the parchment on her lap.

For so long she had gone without genuine words of assurance and affection. She may not remember these people but there was something so real about the scribbles that had been etched into the paper that reached out to her. It touched her deeper than she had anticipated it to. This person may now be a stranger but the faint exchange of an ‘I love you’ appeared to be fresh at the back of her mind. They had distinct voices and Red Cross was sure they were not figments of her imaginations. She had heard them before. The deep voice of a kind and loving man along with a child’s echoing his greeting. A little girl. Was it the same girl Helen had spoken about?

Lost in a daze, Red Cross did not realize that Dr Butridge had stepped into the room. He had been standing at the door for quite some time but seeing how distracted she was, he had decided to wait for her to finish what she was doing. From a distance, he caught the sight of the tear that had dribbled down her cheeks. It was as clear as day. It glowed underneath the lamp that hung nearby her bed like a gem. One of those rare ones that Dr Butridge never thought he would ever see. At first he thought that his eyes had deceived him but when more tears chased down the first the fell, he decided he would make his move.

“Red Cross? Are you alright?”

The loud voice of her colleague startled her back into consciousness. Drying her tears rapidly with her sleeves, she let out one last sniffle and mustered the most of a smile with her some residual strength. She had not realized that she had been staring off into the oblivion as frozen as a statue. Clearing her throat, she lifted her trunk onto her bed and chucked the letters back into the book. She stacked both the books, Alice’s and Rose’s, and shoved them into the trunk which she proceeded to slam shut to wake herself up. The sound hardly made her flinch but the sound rang through her mind, buffering the voices that were surfacing from whatever depths they had emerged from.

“Yes, Dr Butridge.” Her shaking breath told a fine lie. “I’m fine. I was just clearing up some papers.”

The man trotted over to her, taking a seat on the bed beside hers. “You should be resting.”

“I know…” Red Cross muttered as she sat down to face him.

“But you’re still awake,” Dr Butridge pressed on.

Red Cross sighed and lowered her head into her hands, her locks of hair cascading over her face. “I am aware of that.”

“What’s bothering you?” Dr Butridge inquired, leaning forward slightly.

Peering through her hair, she clicked her tongue. “I’m afraid it isn’t any of your business.”

“I’m more than willing to lend a listening ear… But um, you’ll have to speak up because of my condition,” he murmured awkwardly but offered a kind smile.

Hesitating, Red Cross clasped her hands together firmly, digging her nails into her skin. “I appreciate it but I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Maybe gather how all of this started. The core of your problems,” he encouraged.

Red Cross sat upright and her eyes narrowed into a scowl. “I… Well…How on earth do I phrase this properly? Do you ever feel lost?”

“Always!” Dr Butridge replied too quickly. “Goodness, when I’m met with a serious case in the ward, I blank out and I’m left to my own devices to dig my way out of my troubles. I’m surrounded with nurses who could help but when I get lost, it’s hard to see which way to go.”

“N-no, not lost in that sense. Though, I do feel that way too. I meant lost as in…” She evaluated her choices. “I don’t know what am I. Or who I was anymore.”

Dr Butridge was dumbfounded into silence. “In that case… No, I haven’t.”

Red Cross was suddenly struck with grief and she rose to her feet abruptly, spinning around to face Dr Butridge. “What’s become of me, Doctor? Who have I become? Or to put it in better words, _what_ have I become?”

“O-oh? I… You’re a nurse and you’re doing the deed of saving lives in this country! Why has something so simple bothered you?” he asked, oblivious to the woman’s predicament.

“Am I really just a nurse?” Red Cross exclaimed in disbelief.

“Currently, yes…?” Dr Butrdige swallowed heavily. “But you’re also a person, my dear nurse. You have a purpose to serve now and once this war passes, we’ll go about being more than what we are now. I promise you.”

“I don’t need promises. You don’t understand where I’m going at here.”

Dr Butridge pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cannot be left here answering riddles, Red Cross. I am a doctor. For me to understand your problems, you have to be straightforward. Will you stop beating around the bush and get to the point… please?”

Red Cross felt another round of tears pricking the corners of her eyes and she lowered her head to conceal herself within her hands. Sniffling pathetically, she tore herself away from where she hid and brushed her hair out of her face furiously. She never cried and to do it twice in one night was humiliating. Everyone in the bunker knew that she was not one to shed a tear in front of anyone. Had anyone else remained in the bunker with her, this would have been a sight to behold. The Red Cross nurse crying and weeping to a doctor who she considered her only friend. How much worse this was going to get, she did not want to estimate in fears it might become true.

“I have no name, Dr Butridge. I am a pawn, subject to this war like some piece of machinery that goes by the name of Red Cross… I run the quarters to maintain order and discipline, like I have with the soldiers, but not once did I think to ever… mother these children. And, the children are afraid, as am I but it feels as though I have lost every humanely sense in me to play my role as the Red Cross Nurse. A meaningless label for an object that is myself. I am not a person anymore. I’ve… I’ve lost myself after losing everything. I’ve become nothing…”

“So, this isn’t just about Rose?”

“Rose…?”

“That was your little girl’s name.”

“Oh! Oh… No, it’s not just about her. Maybe it is. I don’t know at all.”

“Is it the connection that you’ve lost with your past that is bothering you now?”

A pause. “Perhaps.”

Cautiously, Dr Butridge popped the lid off of Red Cross’s trunk, taking Rose’s book into his hands. Since he and Red Cross were well-acquainted, there were things that he knew about the woman that many others did not know. She was open as she was secluded, but it was exclusive to a certain circle of group which he was lucky to be included in. This woman ran by organization and association, and it was some time ago when the war was blooming when he listened to her read some of her letters to him. They were out of pure delight to hear from her family and he too would share some of his letters from his own family. It had been a nice time then to share something they held close to them but it was the same reason they drifted apart. Although he did not show it, Dr Butridge was aware of many secrets. He was careful to step on shallow ground around Red Cross, wading further only when it was safe.

He flicked through the pages and plucked some pictures that had been wedged into the pages, near the spine where it was secured in place. It was a tricky task to wriggle the photographs out of the coarse material for he hoped it did not scrape the printing. With precision, he retrieved the items he needed from the book like it was a gold mine and he laid them out on his hands. Gathering them in one neat stack, he concealed the photographs within his hands. This was a risk to take. These photographs were either a cure or a lethal poison. It could tarnish Red Cross’s abilities to work, or even function. It had happened before and he did not wish for it to repeat once more to spare the woman’s dignity. Red Cross kept these away for a reason, pushed her past aside to save herself from the agony of her losses. Her pains may resurface again but if she was hurting from the loss of her past, it would do her well to recover some memories.

Holding his hands out to her, Dr Butridge beckoned Red Cross for her attention. It was worth the shot. Hastily wiping a tear away from her cheek, Red Cross looked at him then at his hands and reached out to touch them. She had never retracted her hands so quickly, as if his hands had burnt hers but there was nothing dangerous about them. His hands had saved lives. He was a doctor for goodness’s sake, and a man as dear and gentle as he was, he was very incapable of dealing harm to anyone.

The desire to pry open his hands grew the longer she stared at them but he was not ready to open them yet. Slowly, she looked up at Dr Butridge, taking a deep breath. She did not say anything so Dr Butridge took the initiative to speak; fill the heavy silence that hung in the air.

“Would you like to remember?” he asked quietly.

“…Yes.”

“Where would you like to start?”

“Rose.” The name was still alien to her tongue. “I want to start with Rose.”

Respecting her wishes, Dr Butridge uncovered his hands. He ran through the photographs like playing cards, analysing the best out of the lot to lay on the table. Soon enough, Dr Butridge passed her the first photograph.

* * *

_Underneath an oak tree, a bouquet of daisies bunched up in her tiny hands, mud spotting her pale red dress, a broad grin spreading across her cheeks and ginger hair in wild tangles. Beneath the little girl, a very unamused Red Cross, mid-sigh, whose mood was mismatched with a loving gaze upon her grey hues. The young girl was the spitting image of her mother._

The breeze carried the pleasant early autumn scent of crisp leaves and dewdrops from the light drizzle that had come and gone. The skies were dim shades of blue and ash, clouds circling the area which broke the sun rays into several spotlights shining upon the barren field. Many families had decided that the field was the perfect destination to spend the afternoon away, as did Red Cross’s. It would be a shame to spend the day at home when they could be in the cooling embrace of nature, surrounded by people who they could mingle around with. Children, most especially, needed to be exposed to the open world and meet more people. And it was the very activity they were doing in a meeting circle somewhere at the centre of the field.

6-year-old Rose had gone dashing off across the fields to join the circle under her father’s supervision while Red Cross had taken a spot underneath a lovely oak tree. A picnic mat had been spread out for her to sit on to prevent any mud from soaking into her skirt. The thought of having to clean the muddy patches was sickening. It was the least of her worries as it was the job of a housewife to do such labor, and she would not mind it if the day concluded with her darling Rose having fun. Looking at the circle of children, she could spot her daughter from the lot and that was because the children around her had blurred faces. They were obscured, blank of any distinguishable features except for their hair. It was none of her business to make out the faces of people she would never see again. Her daughter was the main attraction to her eyes, and her alone. Not even her own husband, who was waving to her, had a face. _She could not remember._

The mothers of the other children approached her but, like her husband, she could not see their faces. She caught several intriguing topics of their conversation and her mouth would open to chime in. It was odd how her own voice was fuzzy too but it ran on as the memory did. Like an old tape that could not be repaired, left to run on the film camera for its visuals. As they spoke of motherly duties and the ridiculous price rates of the groceries, Red Cross was interrupted by Rose who had made the effort to run uphill to her mother without her father’s help. Her daughter beamed up at her then greeted the other mothers. It did not take her any longer than a second to direct her smile back to her mother and it was then she could see an intent behind her large grin.

Trudging behind Rose was her husband, panting as he moped the sweat from his brow after an attempt to keep up with the young girl (which he failed to). Like Rose, he greeted the other mothers who took the liberty to leave the tiny family to their own private time together after exchanging a chorus of ‘good afternoon’s. Red Cross’s husband deflated in the empty spot beside her, leaning against the tree entirely to reenergize his stamina; stamina he had lost from chasing his daughter halfway up a hill. Rose, on the other hand, claimed the spot on her mother’s lap and laid against her body. Red Cross tutted as she combed her hands through Rose’s matted hair, scrunching her nose to express her disappointment.

“I thought I told you not to be rowdy.” For some reason, the conversation between her and Rose became as clear as day.

“We were playing tag. How could we not be rowdy?” Rose giggled as she looked up at Red Cross, her grin softening into a smile.

“You’re also caked in mud. Look at your dress,” Red Cross pointed out and pursed her lips in a tight line as she pinched her now dirty skirt. “Now I’m drenched in mud too.”

A shutter clicked as a camera flashed and it made Rose double over in giddy laughter. The face her mother had made was going to be on a photograph for a very long time while she sat on her lap with the widest and proudest grin she could muster. The look of mild distaste lingered still on her mother’s face but there was no true fire. It was only a playful jab; that was Red Cross for her. A woman who never dared to raise her voice at her own child, yet alone scold her under any circumstances. Rose always thought that she was too kind, so on her own accord she would do her best to make her mother happy without raising any occasion for her to ever berate or yell. It was probably the best idea to save her yelling for work.

“I’ll can clean it up for you. Soap and water, and voila!” the girl cheered and it was enough to brighten up Red Cross.

“Please be wary next time, alright? Cleaning by hand is no easy task.” She pressed a kiss to her head.

Rose hummed happily then turned to face her mother. She lifted a bouquet of hand-plucked daisies and waggled them about. “I got these for you!”

“Was that how you got all muddied, young lady?” Red Cross laughed as she stroked Rose’s cheek.

“Yeah! I wanted to get the best flowers for you before the other kids got them.”

A muffled voice followed from her husband that said something along the lines of, “I had to wrestle her out of the lot,” and it elicited another laugh from Red Cross.

“Aw, aren’t you a tiny tiger?” Red Cross teased.

“No, I was a mole! I managed to dig my way through and find a path to the flowers. I didn’t need to be scary and fierce to get what I want,” Rose explained. Choosing a daisy out of the many she had gotten, she tucked one behind her mother’s ear. “Like you taught me, slowly is the fastest way ahead.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, in the book the Tortoise and the Hare.”

“Ah… Indeed, I did.”

Another hushed murmur came from her husband. “…, you ought be more focused when you read to Rose. She’s learning a lot faster than you.” _What was her name?_

“I know and I am very proud that she’s learning at this pace. Let her surpass me,” Red Cross claimed. “Even if her intelligence surpasses mine, my pride would soar.”

Rose threw her arms around Red Cross in a tight embrace, giggling loudly as she buried her face into her mother’s neck. Smiling, Red Cross enveloped the girl in her arms and planted another kiss against her forehead, mumbling ‘I love you’ against her skin. The girl replied with a sloppier “I love you too”, and there she laid comfortably. Red Cross took the daisies from Rose’s hands, twisting the stems delicately into a chain to form a flower crown. It was an old skill she taught herself at a young age and passing this down to her daughter might continue the chain of an old hobby of many generations before. It was not too much of a useful ability but it was a fun talent to show off to people. Perhaps she would teach Rose what she knew.

Rose and her husband spoke distantly, their voices now muted for she did not pay any mind to it. She was focused on finishing the flower crown and with her mind set on something, the world around her dissolved. She tumbled down a hole, clawing at the dirt to reach out for her daughter or for her faceless husband. After one glimpse, she yearned for more but the familiar pang of heartache welled up within her chest. It hurt to even flex her fingers to grasp her daughter’s hand. What hurt her most was the smile Rose flashed at her. It was a reminder that this was supposed to be a happy memory. Rose would not want this memory to rot away into misery. And so, Red Cross managed a smile. She tumbled further down the hole and at the end, she landed on her own two feet. Her clothes had changed into her uniform, hair pulled up in her usual bun and suitcase in hand, but she was not in the bunker.

She was at home.

* * *

_Tear-filled eyes, a warm embrace, the exchange of their final ‘I love you’s. In hand, a toy rabbit and a book._

The joy from the previous memory died down into gloom, complemented by the grey and empty sky and the horrible sight of the bus that had taken her away from her family. Out of her memories, this one was burned at the back of her mind, ready to leap at her with an excruciating pain she could never heal. Here it was to bite her again but she pushed herself towards it. Everyone lived and welcomed the shocks of life, including loss. Out there in the war and in the bunker, many suffered the same fate she had gone through but they chose to be close-minded, keeping their grief to themselves. She was one of them.

This memory was short from what she could recall. Red Cross was met with the sight of her husband who uttered loving words of assurance to her, a hand resting on her forearm before he drew her into a brief hug. He smelled of cologne, the unmistakeable scent of home that Red Cross found very pleasant. It was the clearest sensory detail in the house. Even her own home consisted of nothing but the front door and the stairway where she saw Rose thundering her way down far too aggressively for a 6-year-old. Red Cross would have laughed but what came out of her parted lips was something torn in between a choked cry and a chuckle. Pulling away from her husband, she knelt down and held her arms out to Rose who collided into her. The crash was enough to send them both toppling to the ground but neither of them released their hold on each other.

Rose wept against her shoulder and she pressed a long and affectionate kiss to her forehead, hands combing through her hair in a calming motion. A camera shutter went off with a flash. One final memory for her to carry to the bunkers. This time, Rose did not smile. Her smaller frame shuddered and she gazed up at her mother with reddened cheeks stained with tears, her bottom lip trembling. Red Cross cupped her cheeks within her hands and, with her thumbs, she dried her tears.

“I will be back in a few months…” A lie.

“It’s too long…” Rose whined with a huff as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“I don’t make the rules, my dear. If I did, I would have chosen to stay with you.”

Rose sniffled loudly. “I wish you could have made a choice.”

“Me too…”

Regaining herself, Rose straightened herself up. “Take these with you!” Rose thrusted a book and toy rabbit into her mother’s hands.

Looking at them, Red Cross swallowed a sob and shook her head. “Rose… I can’t take them with me. You can’t sleep without them.”

“I’ll be okay. You can read yourself to sleep and you’ll have someone to watch over you since you’ll be looking after others,” Rose told her.

Red Cross almost let out a sob. Almost, and she wish she had released it. “I’ll miss you so much.”

“I’ll miss you too. So, so, so, so much …” Rose hiccoughed. “Will you write to us?”

“Of course. I’ll write to you and your father as much as possible.”

“Everyday?” The hope Rose radiated terrified Red Cross. The higher her hopes were, the harder she might fall if she received false promises.

“If that is allowed, then yes.”

Her husband came to carry the girl before she glued herself permanently to her mother’s side and he pulled her back up to her feet. Now she could see him. His features had been restored to where they were meant to be and the first thing Red Cross saw was the way his eyes glimmered with tears. Her husband, like her, was not a crier. He was an emotional man, sensitive in a good way, but he never wept. It was as if he had foreseen then that they were never going to meet again. Once she left that door, it was goodbye forever. He did not cry for the sake of staying strong for Rose but she was already a lost case of sobs and wails. Extending his free arm, he drew Red Cross into a hug. Their very last one as a family.

“Stay safe. I’ll pray for you every single day…” he whispered into her hair.

“I’ll pray for you and Rose too… I love you two so much,” she breathed.

“I love you too.”

 _I’ll pray for you and Rose too._ Had her prayers gone unheard or was the Lord crowded by too many pleas for his blessing and protection amidst the war? He must have received her husband’s and possibly Rose’s for she was very much alive now. But why had he ignored hers? Had it not been the wiser decision to save two lives instead of one? To save a soul part of the growing generation that was meant to rebuild their broken city? She was furious by the way He played his cards and chose who lived and who died. It was an unfair game to play and she desperately wanted no part of it anymore. Life had no exit so she would let fate play their cards to narrate what was left of her story. This was, again, tactless of her but she had nobody left who cared.

Like she had mentioned before, the memory was brief. After hugging her daughter for what felt like forever, she found herself falling down the hole again where darkness engulfed. She could not remember what it was like to step on that dreadful bus and she was glad she did not. The image of her house disappearing into the distance where her husband and daughter vanished was much too anguishing to imagine. Two emotionally filled recollections were not enough for her. She wanted to hear her voice again, to run her fingers through those unkempt curls, to kiss her forehead once last time and to hold her in her arms, never letting go. She wanted everything she could never have again. Not in this or the next life that was beyond the war.

* * *

She was a wife and a mother no more but the shell of a human dressed in garments of a nurse. To answer the question that had been raised by that insensitive nurse, no… The yelling never worked on her little girl because she had never dared to raise her voice at her. Her beloved daughter. The memories came rushing back to her and soon she was reduced to tears. If Rose were looking down upon her, she would be disappointed to see how low her own mother had stooped. Red Cross’s tactics had kept the children alive, yes, but their spirits were dampened and that might lead them to another path of demise without her knowledge. It was not better to be feared than loved, she concluded. At first it had been. The greed for order had drowned her emotions, and the loss she had suffered buried whatever remnants there were left of a once loving mother.

Detached from herself and all that came before, there was no way she could turn back to recollect the shards of her past. Now she had no life beyond this job even if she were to leave the bunkers into a liberated world. What would or could she do once she got out of there? Restart life and move on from her past or squander over the mystery of the history she had thrown away to prevent any further harm on her already dead heart? No amount of embalming would bring a dead heart back to life but poking and prodding it further seemed to inflict more damage.

Red Cross, or whoever had come before her, died when she lost her family. Would the same happen to Alice if she lost her dear Alfred? Her only living family. Perhaps this book she carried around with her was how she kept him close to her heart. Stripping Alice of the only reminder she had left of Alfred was too cruel of an act and guilt pooled in Red Cross’s stomach. Even if Alice lived to see daylight above the bunkers, she would become the hollowed shell that Red Cross had become those few months ago. Flipping over the lid of her bag, she picked up the child’s blanket and studied. It was so inconsiderate of her, and the books that stared up at her berated her in harsh silence. One that longed for its owner, and the other that yearned for a new beginning. She could not deny them those needs anymore. Alice must hate her for what she had done to something she treasured so much. She deserved it anyway.

A pair of arms enveloped Red Cross in a hug and through hazy eyes, she noticed that Dr Butridge had manoeuvred himself to her side. The bed sank underneath his weight, making her lean against him for some comfort. It was an awkward hug but the tension in the air had diffused into nothing. After all that rambling, the burden from her chest was lifted to some extent. She still had no proper answer and perhaps she wanted it to remain unanswered. A few fragments were enough to live on to remind her that she was more than God’s pawn. Before she had rambled, she was aware that Dr Butridge did not carry the solution or the rights to intrude her private life to know everything she spoke about. But if he knew who Rose was, he was bound to know more. She would stop him though, before he proceeded any further on the matter. And those questions were reserved for another day when she was ready to overcome and accept all this information.

“Are you alright?” he approached warily.

“Better than I thought I’d be,” Red Cross whispered as she nestled her head on Dr Butridge’s shoulder. Her tears soaked through his shirt but he showed little care.

“You are so much more than this… You know that,” he told her.

“Do I?” Red Cross challenged, almost snapping, but Dr Butridge did not budge.

“You speak of God in times of need and you’ve spoken of Him and purpose in everyone he’s placed upon this earth. Like everyone else, God planted you in our mother planet for a reason. Why should he treat you any differently from others?”

Red Cross tried to find an answer but came up with nothing, only disappointment. “Maybe because I’ve sinned. Wronged him by bringing wrath upon the generation that was meant to keep our world going.”

“It’s not a sin to want discipline and the stakes are high with the war going on. They’re children and they have to be educated to learn from their mistakes… But you do have to tone down on the yelling,” he hummed.

“I will try…”

Dr Butridge pulled away from the hug to look at her. “Have you ever prayed for yourself?”

“I… Have I”- An epiphany struck her. “I’ve never.”

“Perhaps you should… Maybe you’ll find your answer if you actually asked Him your questions or rely on yourself rather than on a religious being for answers that you could find by yourself. It only takes a little patience.”

Dr Butridge was not as religious as she was but his words of advice made more sense than any of the bumbling messes she articulated. This became eye opening to her with God as a matter. Her escape was God. Everything she had ever expressed, whether it was desperation, love or sadness, she would always flee to God. She still had some form of emotion inside of her but she had found the wrong mediums of expressing them. She prayed to God to ask him to shed her love upon them in His blessings and guidance rather than providing her own directly. Goodness gracious, why was everything dawning on her now?! After speaking to a friendly figure such as Dr Butridge instead of the all-knowing God, it had shed more light than in all her years of praying on her knees. Not that God was any less of powerful than she had believed him to be but talking to someone in person was terribly helpful.

“I’m sorry you feel this way.” He withdrew from the sensitive topic. “If it helps… You could check the office records,” Dr Butridge suggested.

Red Cross sniffled softly. “I think… I think I won’t do that. I can’t bear to turn around and see everything I left behind. I did it for a reason…”

“Then I respect your wishes,” he assured her. “I know you don’t want promises but I will promise you, after this, you’ll find yourself again. Build over the past and emerge stronger. It’s what everyone has to do after this war, literally even. We’ll help each other out.”

“Sounds like a brilliant idea…” Still, she hugged the blanket and the toy rabbit to her chest, unable to let go. Some hope bubbled in her chest, just a little, for a new start ahead of them. Wherever that was.

Her memory at the fields with Rose reminded her of a good lesson. Her husband had been right about catching up with Rose’s intelligence. Some of that would have helped her cross this obstacle she found herself stuck at. Slowly was the fastest way to get to where she wanted to be, but she had halted her journey entirely. She had to move on, move past the pain and continue living on. She would still let fate toy around with her destiny. After all, it was the way life ran apparently now that their lives had been surrendered to the war.

Even though her daughter was not there with her, she still had her rabbit toy. She had the courage now to take him out of her trunk and sit him on her pillow where he could watch over her. He was still in pristine condition. Rose had done a wonderful job taking care of him, and Red Cross could not have been prouder. It was astonishing how the girl could still bedazzle her in her absence. Red Cross then laid out Rose’s baby blanket over her pillow, as if tucking in the rabbit toy into bed. She had seen Rose do it and she would do the same. As for the books, she had something else in mind for them.

Dr Butridge said nothing about the toy rabbit. He only smiled. “Is there any other way I could help you?” Dr Butridge questioned as he patted her back.

“No… But thank you for giving me your time,” Red Cross mumbled.

“What?”

“I said thank you for giving me your time”-

“I heard you the first time.”

Red Cross smiled slightly and slapped his arm lightly. “You cheeky man.” Setting the blanket and toy aside, she picked up Alice’s book and retrieved the torn pages, unfurling them delicately. She was familiar with the content of the book, having heard its retelling over and over again by a bedside and a single lamp that illuminated its pages. She held them up to Dr Butridge who laughed lightly. “Can you help me fix this up?”

“Why, of course…”

* * *

Winter bloomed and the children, with their bunks, were all huddled up in a circle where they chatted and laughed. The nurses would come and go for their shifts, contented to see that they were all behaving themselves. There was something respectful in the way they spoke in hushed whispers and bowed heads as they reminisced their times above the bunker. One bunker laid empty with a pair of boots and a costume waistcoat atop of the pillow, a lost friend who had gone to some place else better than this war zone they were trapped in. Even if he was not there in person, they still spoke as though he were there, bringing up lovely stories they knew he would enjoy. Despite the joy that spread around the room, two girls sat away from the circle. One dangled carelessly from a ladder while another sat at the foot of the ladder with her knees drawn to her chest. Everyone mourned differently and Alice had confided in grief to be her companion for the day.

Alice had already learnt to accept Alfred’s passing but it was always hard to let go completely. She had nothing of his to cling on to that belonged to the both of them. What she had left of him that they shared had been confiscated and she fretted never seeing it again. It had been taking in the fall but with the season transitioned to winter, all hope had gone for the book. At least his silly rabbit costume was something else he could be remembered by. Her beloved white rabbit.

Tabatha had tried to cheer her up with a few tricks on the ladder but the bliss was temporary. Comfort was not her forte but she could be there for someone passively. Alice had already confirmed a hundred times before that Tabby’s presence was enough for it ensured her that she was not alone in this dreadful world. She was surrounded by people she loved and those who loved her back. She would make it through this without another tear shed. Alfred was liberated from dying world and he did not have to suffer anymore. Though, speaking of being surrounded by people who loved her one who possibly did not, stepped into the room and everyone fell silent.

Red Cross strode into the room with her clipboard, her pen clicking to fill the quiet atmosphere. She held her head up high and stood with her back so straight, it made almost taller than Dr Butridge. Alice was no fool to despair. In Red Cross’s eyes, she could see how a shadow had been casted over those bright grey hues. A blanket of mourning shadowing her features. Emotions did not suit the woman and it was so peculiar to see them displayed on this stoic figure Alice had come to know for months. It was so very uncharacteristic of her and she was not sure if she liked the sight of it.

Her eyes followed Red Cross’s gaze as she scrutinized each and every face, counting the number of lives left in her hands. But then her attention lingered on Alice for a very long time. Contemplation. Alice was sure she had not done anything wrong this week. She spent most of it sitting in bed or circling Tabatha’s ladder while listening to her tell tales of overcoming fear. What could the woman want from her?

“Alice. May I speak with you for a minute, please?” she requested.

“Of course.” It was the usage of “May I” and “please” that made her succumb to the request. Such politeness could not be rejected.

“Good luck,” Dodgy called out to her.

“You’re going to need it,” Clarissa added with a light chuckle.

Alice leapt to her feet, sticking her tongue out at the duo, and followed Red Cross out of the room where she immediately produced two book that had been hidden behind the clipboard she carried. “What’s this?”

“I’m not sure if you’re being sarcastic or not, but they’re books. I’d expected you to be smarter than this,” Red Cross stated bluntly.

“Okay, and?” The books were then extended to her to take and she obliged, taking them. Her eyes lit up when she read the cover and she gasped out in surprise. “My book! You fixed it up.”

“Dr Butridge provided some assistance…” A moment passed between them as Alice ran through the pages of her book. “I… I want to apologize, Alice, for being so harsh.”

Alice narrowed her eyes slightly in suspicion. “Why are you apologizing now?”

Red Cross inhaled slowly and with small steps, she leaned against the wall. “Something made me open my eyes… Actually, someone. They knocked some senses into me and I was foolish for not realizing any sooner that I was doing the complete opposite of what my job asks of me.”

“And that is?” Red Cross was missing the point deliberately but Alice wanted to hear it for herself.

“I brought more pain than care,” Red Cross hissed through her teeth.

Alice considered. “Your apology is accepted but I speak on behalf of myself. I can’t answer for the others.”

“I’ll speak with them soon…”

Alice nodded and she turned away from Red Cross to look at the other book. “Alice Through the Looking Glass… This isn’t my book.”

“Consider this a gift from me to you. It deserves to be in more worthy hands than mine,” Red Cross said but dismissed any more reason, no matter how gleeful Alice seemed to be.

“My collection is whole again. I lost my copy at home before the war began. Thank you. I uh… really appreciate it.” Alice was grateful but still, this entire conversation was bizarre. She never would have expected a random conversation to stir with Red Cross but her book had always told her to expect the impossible. Flipping the cover page, Alice saw a name. “Rose? Was she someone you knew?”

“Yes. Someone who came and went,” Red Cross tried to brush it off. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have duties to fulfil. Have a pleasant day, Alice.”

“She’s your daughter, isn’t she?”

Of course, Alice was not going to let her off the hook. Her curiosity always buzzed in her mind and it might be the fuel she ran on. “Yes, she _was_.”

“What do you mean ‘was’? Did you disown her?” Alice guessed, and it was an extremely rude wild guess. She was not guilty, not even the slightest, with what she had said. Not that Red Cross had expected her to be.

Exhaling through her nose, Red Cross glanced at Alice solemnly. “I am not as heartless as you think, Alice. I loved my daughter, and I still do. Both her and my husband.”

Fascinated, Alice clasped her hands behind her back where she held onto the books. She found herself a nice place to sit on upon a crate and she had no intention of leaving. She wanted to hear what Red Cross had to say about her past for she had no idea what or who the woman was before the war happened. She stole her chance and Red Cross had nothing to devise an escape plan. In her perspective, there was not even a slip of an opportunity to dismiss the topic. Alice had cornered her and with her newly melted heart, she could not say no otherwise she was back at square one as the evil, ruthless and irascible nurse that no one liked.

Without a doubt, this might take a while so Red Cross got cozy. She sat on a crate opposite Alice who was now swinging her legs in anticipation, head tilted to gaze up at her like a child waiting for a story to begin. Nothing about her history was awe-inspiring or striking. She could not understand why Alice did not let this slide to return to her friends. Any time they were alone, Alice would retreat to the children’s bunker to shield herself or stand up to her as a rebellion. For their favors, Red Cross would make this as short as possible.

“You can ask questions but I won’t guarantee answers for all of them.”

Alice scowled. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t have them… I don’t remember everything.”

“You’ve moved on to another room in your head. You chose to forget them, right? To save yourself from the pain.”

Red Cross was puzzled and she nodded. “Yes. How do you”-

“Alfie. He told me to find another room in my head a while before he passed. I refused to listen and it’s left me in so much agony.”

“Then why didn’t you listen if you were aware that you were going to suffer?”

Alice chuckled dryly. “Easy. It was because I love him and I wanted him to know that I was going to be there until his final moments. Feeling pain is what makes us all human. We have losses and gains. It’s just the way life rolls… But when did you choose to forget them?”

“Right after I’d heard that they died.”

“Both of them?!”

“I clearly said ‘they’.”

“Oh…”

Red Cross continued. “On that same day, the total amount of deaths had been tabulated. They were just two corpses out of… thousands. Many had come to the bunkers injured and I couldn’t dwell in my sadness for long. People could be saved and I didn’t want anything to sabotage the efforts of the front liners who were also going through their own losses.”

Alice’s scowl returned and she huffed. “I think it’s cruel that you had to put aside your pain to tend to others.”

“But it’s my job, Alice. It’s what I signed up for. The work ethics state-”

“Enough of work ethics and work itself. We’re talking about you now”- Alice searched for a name but found none, making her jaw drop open slightly. “I just realized I don’t even know your name.”

“If I remembered it, I would have been offended,” Red Cross joked which made Alice smile.

Alice got up and skipped over to Red Cross, setting on the same crate she sat on. “What was Rose like? If you remember.”

“Are you sure you want to hear a mother blabber about her child? I’m going to remind you, it’s not small talk,” Red Cross warned her.

“I’m here to listen. Since no one gave you the opportunity to talk about family after they passed, I’ll lend an ear,” Alice stated.

Red Cross was rendered speechless. Out of all the people here, it had to be Alice Spencer taking her side and willingly sacrificing her time. “You’re a lovely girl, Alice… You really are. But you’re also very strange.”

“Really?”

“In the best way possible. I never would have thought you would spare a minute for me,” Red Cross admitted.

“I can be full of spontaneity and surprises.” Then she patted Red Cross’s knee. “Now, stop stalling and tell me about Rose. She would have been a cool friend to make seeing as she’s related to you.”

Red Cross furrowed her brows. “You two would have gotten together well. She’s like you. I could say, she’s almost identical to you.”

“Have I ever reminded you of her?”

“On many occasions, yes.”

“Go on!”

Conversing with a child came to her naturally, as if she had done it a thousand times before to be so experienced. As she spoke, Alice kept quiet. The girl was always chatty but she knew how to be obedient when an adult spoke. This very moment reminded Red Cross of Rose already, how she would stare in bewilderment as she told a story and her reactions would carve into her features. Alice was expressive, either scrunching her nose or perking up with excitement when she heard something about Rose that was akin to herself. Red Cross understood Alice like the back of her hand, but it did not mean that she had the ability to discipline or speak to her like her daughter. As alike as they were, they were also dissimilar in many aspects.

The door to the children’s bunker creaked open and a few heads popped in to eavesdrop on the conversation between the woman and their friend. It had taken Alice too long to return and the wonderous lot could not resist sticking their noses into the private meeting. It was Tabatha, Dodgy and Harold who were observing the pair while the others cowered behind them awaiting a report. It had been simple to choose the three as the others had already backed out they called for volunteers to spy on Red Cross and Alice. As the halls were dark, it took three pairs of eyes to sketch out the scene in front of them.

“Sir, targets are in position,” Harold reported. “They’re stationed upon the crates.”

“They’re… talking,” Tabatha continued.

“Well, obviously they’re talking. It’s a very peaceful conversation, by the way,” Dodgy hummed.

“Red Cross is never the talkative type,” Angus mused, puffing a cloud of smoke with every syllable. “Are you sure?”

“They’re not fist fighting, if that’s what you want,” Dodgy snorted with a roll of his eyes.

“Whatever could they be speaking about? Red Cross had only wished to see her for a moment. It’s nearly been ten minutes,” Clarissa complained.

“I don’t want to get in trouble, g-guys. Can we go back?” Nigel moaned in defeat.

A few hands swatted at him comically. “Then go back to your bed. We’ll be here,” Tabatha excused him.

“Dismissing a soldier already, ma’am? Shall I bring him away?” Harold barked out.

A collective choir of ‘shhh’ and ‘hush’ interrupted him but it was too late. Red Cross and Alice had caught them red-handed but they laughed out heartily. Tabatha swung the door open wholly for the others to see what her, Dodgy and Harold were seeing, and nobody could form sentences to comment on what they were witnessing. Harold nudged Tabatha and leaned in to whisper.

“Shall we retreat?” he hissed urgently. “They see us.”

“Nope… I take it their laughing is not a bad sign?” Tabatha trailed off then looked at the others for assurance but they were shrugging and shaking their heads.

“Hey, guys! Come join us!” Alice invited them but they were tentative.

“You’re free to join. I won’t bite,” Red Cross murmured as she beckoned them the vacant space.

Angus inspected his hookah. “Have I had too much?”

“Maybe you did and your second-hand smoke gave us the same hallucination,” Dodgy hypothesized.

Alice and Red Cross waited no longer to resume her storying. It was at their will if they wanted to join or not. The group was adjourned when Tabatha left to sit beside Alice, wanting to discover more of this interaction. Dodgy and Clarissa were next to condense the circle, sitting opposite the trio with bravery they had accumulated together to mobilize their legs to get them there. Then came along the others with Nigel scampering behind them and almost tripping over his shoes when he tried to sit down calmly.

It was not a nurse who spoke to them now but a mother and instead of individuals, everyone had turned into children again, sitting in a circle obediently to listen to the mother narrate her story. It took only a few minutes for the others to warm up. Alice led them to safety through the unfamiliar conversation, showing that Red Cross meant no harm. In the same order they had arrived to the scene, they talked to liven up the chat. The group would chime in if they had questions or remarks, mostly to share a laugh and contribute to the session with their own add-ins. Alice requested for pictures but Red Cross had left them in her trunk. Tabatha spoke about her little sister (who was lost to the war) and everyone offered her a moment of silence for respect. Then, Clarissa shared memories of her aunt Beesly. Nigel also gathered the courage to talk to the group about his mother.

Red Cross had redeemed a piece of herself as a mother but the rest of her remained missing. She would dig up the remnants in the future when she was ready. What she had now sufficed and she was not willing to lose too much again. When the world blossomed again, she would bloom with it. This was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, it's not canon in my writing that Red Cross is a lesbian.  
> Closeted trans wife who she refers to as her husband (with her approval) because society back then wasn't very nice. :) Thank you, Martsy, for helping me out with this.


End file.
